


Streaming Feed

by bobross



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Completely Consensual, M/M, Omegaverse, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-09
Updated: 2012-08-09
Packaged: 2017-11-11 18:22:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/481488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bobross/pseuds/bobross
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>John purses his lips. "You've never had sex with an omega in heat, is what you're saying."</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Streaming Feed

**Author's Note:**

> Just some short dialogue exchanges, no plot ~~or porn~~ to speak of. Nothing I'm in love with, but I like Sherlock's weirdness enough to share it anyway.
> 
> And hey, O!verse with no immediate consent issues, yeah? Groovy.
> 
>  **ETA:** A Chinese translation by thebigsister can be found [here](http://221dnet.211.30i.cn/bbs/forum.php?mod=viewthread&tid=2702&extra=page%3D1). Thanks again for your effort, kind reader!

"Sherlock. Are you watching pornography on my laptop?"

"Yes." Sherlock sits hunched at the desk, eyes riveted to the screen. "A streaming feed. The pre-recorded fare was utterly useless, it's all too edited and sensationalized to contain any useful data."

John stands in the doorway a moment longer. He can't see the images, but the sounds piping from the tinny little speakers are testimony enough.

 _"Oh—oh! Oh my God,_ yes _, breed me, fucking breed me, put it in me—!"_

"Sherlock." He drawls the name out a little longer this time. "That sounds like omega porn."

Sherlock waves, vaguely impatient. " _Yes_ , John. I wondered whether you would have any on hand, but all I found were grossly photoshopped images of alpha women."

He isn't going to take the obvious bait. "Do I want to know why you're watching live omega porn?" The corner of John's mouth tips up in teasing. "It's not like you to settle for secondhand data if you don't have to."

Sherlock shoots him an odd look. "Isn't it obvious?" He doesn't wait for the inevitable negative, instead gesturing at the flickering screen before him. "This omega is in heat. Artificially induced, most likely, but the effect is the same."

Ah. John finally moves from the threshold and comes to stand behind Sherlock's shoulder, leaning in a little to get a better look. His hand rests on the back of the chair. "So you wanted to, what, see what the difference was?"

"I know the physiological differences," Sherlock says absently. "Heightened libido and pheromone production, hormonal fluctuation resulting in emotional instability, decreased viscosity of the cervical plug—"

"We're horny, we're clingy, and we can make babies." A gross oversimplification, but something about listening to Sherlock's clinical tally makes John's nose wrinkle. He eyes the screen dubiously. "Induced oestrus just sounds... uncomfortable. I hope his fee makes up for the side effects."

"He's not exhibiting any discomfort," Sherlock points out.

"He's in heat—he could probably sprain something and keep right on going." John shifts his feet, recalling the last time he cycled properly. The military enforces suppression as a rule, but there are ways around that when long-term R&R comes round. Warmth blooms up his neck. "Is this, er. Doing anything for you?"

Several long moments pass without answer, punctuated by the increasingly frantic groans fizzling through the speakers. Presently, Sherlock twists around, plucks John's hand from the back of the chair and brings his wrist to his nose, inhaling deeply of the warm space between John's skin and sleeve cuff.

"No," Sherlock replies, and the timbre of his voice has dropped so low it hits John squarely below the belt. "But you do."

\-----------------------------------------------------------

"It wasn't the video, was it," Sherlock remarks some time later.

John hums softly in amusement, looping his bath towel around his neck as he hunts for their teapot. "Not in the slightest. I can't take omega porn seriously."

"Why not?"

"All of the stuff I've seen was one hundred percent alpha fantasy, for a start." The teapot is relatively easy to find. It even appears clean. John gives it a rinse anyway. "That thing you had playing was pretty dire."

Sherlock cocks his damp head like a great gangly bird. "The lubricant," he surmises. "That was distracting, yes."

John swallows a laugh; of course Sherlock noticed. "They glopped on more every time the camera moved up to the actors' faces. I couldn't help visualizing some sweaty sod hovering off to the side with a ladle and a giant bucket of lube." He wings Sherlock a speculative glance. "Alpha fantasy, like I said. You lot want to believe we're all gushers."

"Hardly," Sherlock sniffs. "I've done the research. As many as twenty-three percent of omegas actually produce _less_ lubricant while in heat, and the remaining majority increase only marginally over the norm."

"That would be why it's fantasy." John folds his arms loosely and leans back against the counter. "You never did answer me, you know. On why you were watching it in the first place."

Sherlock slouches over the kitchen table, tinkering with the nearest experiment-in-progress (something involving poultry feet submersed in homemade pickle brine). "Boredom," he says. "Curiosity. Textual information wasn't sufficient, in this case."

John purses his lips. "You've never had sex with an omega in heat, is what you're saying."

"I've never felt any inclination to breed or raise children." Sherlock pauses, brows knitted. "And I don't do well with 'clingy', as you put it."

John turns back to the teapot and hopes Sherlock didn't notice the smile trying to break loose. "You might do better than you think. Omega pheromones play silly buggers with alpha brains."

He can practically hear the look on Sherlock's face. "Exactly."

"I can see how that might be unnerving." The water is beginning to boil. John fetches a pair of tea bags and cups. "Although you seem to like what little of my scent you pick up, despite the suppressants."

"It's faint. All but undetectable, especially when you're around other people with stronger scents." Sherlock's shrug filters into his tone. "There's some accumulation under your clothes, but it's not overwhelming, even if I breathe it in directly."

"And that's the part that bothers you. The 'overwhelming' bit?"

"It was _one_ of a long list of things which led to my decision to avoid the situation entirely," Sherlock corrects him crisply. "And I still don't want to breed."

John devotes the next couple of minutes to the tea and says nothing more until he sets Sherlock's cup down next to the jar of brine. Then: "Well. Not every omega wants to be bred." Another of pornography's little myths.

Sherlock makes a noise that either signifies acknowledgement or begs John to stop stating the bleeding obvious. "Hand me the tongs. My turkey feet are ready."

\-----------------------------------------------------------

John won't quite recall how many days (or whether it only _seemed_ like days) pass before Sherlock makes the next move. He remembers the actual conversation with crystal clarity, however.

"John, do you enjoy vaginal sex?"

Not a question one expects when one's fingers are depressing the stiff root of a corpse's tongue, unless one lives with Sherlock Holmes. John pauses only a moment. "Under facilitating circumstances, yes."

"Well, yes, obviously the circumstances dictate—but actively? It isn't merely an instinctual response to stimuli?"

"Good God, Sherlock, is now really the time to be discussing this?" John sighs before Sherlock can get huffy over things like sensibilities and multitasking. "Yes, all right? I do. Granted, I'm programmed to like it, but yeah. It's intense." He aims a penlight down the corpse's throat and adds, under his breath, "A lot depends on who I'm with."

"Excellent." Sherlock claps his hands together, sounding far too animated for a relatively tame crime scene. "Perfect timing. You were due for a suppressant in two days anyway, and it'll take at least ten days for your cycle to reassert. I'll have this case solved as soon as we break into the mother's house. Plenty of time to wrap up the loose ends."

John sits back on his heels and stares up at Sherlock, penlight and corpse all but forgotten. He's trying to be annoyed, but God help him, Sherlock is vibrating like a kid on Christmas morning. He wants this very badly.

Still. "Want to try that again? This time, fake an interrogative."

Sherlock stops in mid-pace and blinks. Scowls. "Well, _obviously_ only with your consent, John."

"I know," John tells him, "I just like to be asked."

Sherlock glares at him petulantly before leaning down, seeming not to notice the dead body a few feet under his nose. "John, would you mind skipping your next round of suppressants? I'd very much enjoy spending the national average of eighty-nine hours with my cock intermittently lodged in your vagina."

John bursts into laughter, and he's sure he sees Sherlock's lip twitch before the detective straightens up again. "And they say romance is dead." He hefts the penlight and goes back to work on the corpse's tongue, grinning despite himself. "Yeah, Sherlock. All right. We'll talk details later."

"Brilliant. Are you almost finished?"

"Nearly. Hang on a tick." And, because two can play at this game: "By the way, remember that live porn feed you were watching a few days back? The, er, artificially sloppy one?"

"Mm."

"We won't need some sod with a ladle."

He senses more than sees Sherlock's abrupt stillness, off to one side. "Oh?" comes the oh-so-even response. 

John doesn't bother hiding his smirk. "Sorry to contradict your research, but I actually am the fantasy cliché. Congratulations."

Sherlock doesn't say anything for a long, long moment. Long enough that John begins to wonder whether that gusher nonsense might _not_ be what Sherlock wants. Which would just figure.

Then, with pitch-perfect boredom: "I had wondered whether it would require, ah, muscular compensation on the omega's part. To ensure a sufficient lock is achieved despite the abundance of lubrication."

When Sherlock resorts to textbook-speak on the subject of sex, his brain is likely shunting blood elsewhere. John whuffs in amusement. "'Muscular compensation'?" he echoes cheerfully. "I'll wring you out like a bloody tea-towel." He tucks the penlight away and gets to his feet. "All done here. You get us a cab, I'll text Lestrade."

\-----------------------------------------------------------

**Author's Note:**

> Two things common to all incarnations of my omega!John:
> 
> i) He will fuck your shit up.  
> ii) He gushes lube like the Exxon Valdez.


End file.
